


Happily Ever After, Below the Waist

by nervousknifeboy



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Relationship(s), Romance, playboy pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervousknifeboy/pseuds/nervousknifeboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikey's an odd sort who gets attached too easily even when everyone and their mother (or, in his case, his brother) is telling him otherwise. Pete runs rampant when it comes to feelings, if the criteria is hookups and promiscuity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happily Ever After, Below the Waist

Sprawled across the covers of hip teen magazines and tabloids were many facts about Pete Wentz, from his often questionable fashion sense to his artfully applied eyeliner. Recently emerged with his band members from an underground of seedy clubs and dive bar gigs, Pete was in the running for the face of emo. There were some things that he was glad to have kept out of the media. While he was characteristically bold in what he did divulge, it was still sensible to keep some things under wraps, especially when it came to personal relationships.

Something that all of his band members were secretly surprised by was the fact that the general public did not know that Pete Wentz was a playboy. In the most extreme sense of the word.

To the credit of those he hooked up with, resisting his tricky combination of unfairly attractive and very persuasive was a difficult task to accomplish. In addition to being an incorrigible flirt, Pete was also genuinely charming. It was a cross between offcolor wit and lopsided puppy dog smiles that made him so. Whatever the case happened to be, when he set his sights on someone, it was seldom that he didn't get what he wanted. Exceptions fell within the realm of interruptions from the guys, refusal from his target, or...

Or, apparently, Gerard Way. 

It'd been clear when he'd met Gerard that there was no need to obscure his bisexuality, as Gerard himself was about as queer as a two-dollar bill, but Pete doubted he'd have been very good at trying _had_ it turned out to be necessary. He was equal-opportunity when it came to sizing up people in places like this, though he usually ended up dragging a guy off to administer hickies in a corner. He was pretty sure it had something to do with the whole bi repression thing; growing up with the societal impression that he was supposed to only look at girls meant that he'd never really gotten a chance to level the playing field. Now, he supposed, was his 'rebellious swinger' phase, or some other clinical expression. Long time to be going through a phase, but no one had asked for his opinion.

His initial run-in with Gerard had been spotting MCR's vocalist sitting on the island of the bar, in the process of none-too-urgently batting their guitarist's hand away from his crotch, so he supposed that spoke for itself. Unperturbed, he'd made his way over, sidling up beside the pair and propping himself up like some cocky Western gunslinger. Frank had greeted him with a lopsided grin and a feather-light tap to the ass, where Gerard had gone for a more traditional hello. "Hey, Pete. Frank, sugar, keep your hands to yourself." He made an exaggerated, sarcastic drawl out of the pet name, earning him a tauntingly raised eyebrow from Frank. Pete snorted, tossing Gerard a smile as he nudged over a bottle of cheap beer. Ironically enough, Fall Out Boy's straight edge drummer occupied the last bar stool on the other side of the bar, involved in seemingly enthusiastic conversation with Joe. Upon seeing Pete, Andy gave him a little wave. 

"Hey, you two. Have the same idea we did? The Lounge was crazy." Among other bands, FOB and MCR had been booked to play in a short stint of gigs at a local tryhard amphitheatre. Crowded place, lax security, but the crowd had been decent. Still, the environment and the overall methamphetamine-hype feel of the place's energy had taken a lot out of them.

So, naturally, they'd made a beeline for somewhere that was only slightly less crowded and significantly more sweaty. Sometimes Pete really questioned their logic.

"Mhm. The whole vibe of that place wasn't really for me." Frank commented, shrugging noncommittally. "That, and no one'd eaten since breakfast. Alarm went off really late." 

"When'd you guys play? I didn't see you." In addition to lamenting that he'd never been in the presence of each member of MCR at once, he also had yet to see them perform live. YouTube yielded little but shaky, blurry, scream-filled fan videos. Then again, that was to be expected.

"We were a few slots behind you guys. Like Frank said, we took off pretty early. Nutrition was calling." Gee snagged the bottle of beer out of Pete's grasp, tipping it back and taking a long, leisurely sip. Frank's eyes went to him and stayed there. Pete, glancing around, saw no sign of either Patrick, Ray or Mikey. He'd only met Ray a small handful of times, and had so far never encountered the elusive Mikey Way, so his eyes could have very well skated over them without his knowledge. Patrick, however, would have stuck out like a sore thumb- and there he was, occupying the corner nearest to the back door, a tall girl caught up in chattering and arm-touching. Patrick channeled Irish garage punk, when you factored in the eccentric hats, sideburns and oddly patterned t-shirts. Fucking adorable was what it was. Seeing Pete glancing around, Gerard spoke up again. "Ray stayed behind, wanted to catch up on some sleep. Mikey's around here somewhere." Given what he'd heard secondhand, Pete got the vibe that Gerard was very, very protective of his little brother. Frank pushed off from the counter, extracting a pack of cigarettes from one sleeve. 

"And I'm about to skip out, too. Won't be long." With a side wink, he made his way past the two musicians, on a path for the back door. Gerard passed the bottle of booze back to Pete after tonguing the flavor off of the rim of the bottle. It had an oddly hypnotizing effect on Pete. He'd thought about trying to get in Gerard's pants a couple of times- when the guy had an ass like that, who could blame him- and probably would have attempted were he not so obviously Frank's. He noticed Gerard scanning the crowd, presumably for either his brother or for the same reason Pete was. Drowning his attention span in a gulp of the admittedly not terrible beer, he hopped up in an actual bar stool beside Gerard. Glancing up at him, Pete squinted, making out the shadow of smudge on his cheek.

"Dude, your eyeliner's fucked to hell." 

"Like you can talk." Gerard shot back, very obviously amused. Whereas Pete's title was media-appointed, Gerard's one of emo  _queen_  had come from nicknames. The vocalist shrugged, swinging his legs and tapping his hands on the counter, seeming content despite the loud, gyrating chaos around them. Pete's eyes briefly moved from Gerard's face again, gaze swinging over to the back door, and then he lost focus entirely. His eyes came to rest on a lanky man lingering by the entrance.

Well. If Pete hadn't been considering the idea of taking some stranger home with him  _before,_ he definitely was now.

He was startled out of his reverie by a light tap to his arm with a blunt object. Gerard was drumming his drink coaster against Pete's elbow, trying to get his attention. "Yeah?" Pete was only half paying attention, still surveying the guy out of the corner of his eye. Gerard opened his mouth to repeat himself, and then stopped. 

"Absolutely not."

"Absolutely not what?"

"Absolutely not as in that's my little brother." Pete's brows went up, but he played innocent regardless.

"Dunno what you're talking about, Gee." Gerard gave a rather melodramatic sigh through his teeth, shaking his head.

"Don't try and seduce my little brother, Pete."

"I'm not gonna try and  _seduce_ him. I just wanna talk to him. He's kinda cute."

"Mhm." Gerard hummed through his teeth, vaguely disapproving, like some soccer mom whose pride and joy had gotten into trouble at school but who didn't have the energy to intervene right now. Pete gave him a wordless look, disbelief written all over his face, and then Gerard gave in. "Fine, go ahead. I'm not his mom." That was all Pete needed to hear.

A couple of quick, confident strides across the floor and then he stood in front of Gerard's sibling, touching his arm to get his attention, fingers briefly knotting in the soft fabric of an overstretched shirt. Bewildered tigers-eye irises darted up to meet his own. Pete backed off a bit, stepping back on his heels to give the guy some room. "Hey. We haven't met yet, I'm-"

"Pete Wentz, of Fall Out Boy. I know." Mikey commented, lips tugging up at the corners. Pete, surprised, nodded.

"Yeah. The other three mention me?"

"That, and we've got magazines lying around. Seems more real this way." Mikey smiled with half of his mouth, it seemed; kept very intense eye contact, even if the shape of his mouth would have normally implied that he wasn't paying attention. Pete was struck with the sudden urge to kiss those lips raw. "I'm-"

"Mikey Way of MCR. Hey." Now Pete was smirking, the curl to his lips either playfulness or malice. With him, there wasn't really an in between.

"The other guys tell you?"

"Yeah. And, kinda like you, 'm not blind."

Their later exchange was hindered by the clash of techno music around them and the constant clink of pints changing hands at the bar in front of them, but neither was complaining. When it became apparent that Pete's crew was growing restless, Pete dug into his pocket until his search turned up a glittery purple pen. A tried-and-true pen for song lyrics. Instead, he used it in grasping Mikey's hand and writing his phone number on it, three digits to each of the three delicate knuckles he chose.

"Text me later."

* * *

 "I fucked up."

It felt bad to laugh, especially with the state of Mikey's face and the little whine to his not-boyfriend's voice, but Pete did it anyway, bracing his hand back against the against the bumpy green wall of the men's restroom. Mikey's cheeks were currently covered in a streaky black mess, eyeliner making blobby shapes on his skin. They reminded Pete of those ink-blot psychology tests- the ones where they had you stare at a black mess and if you saw a deer, you were fine; if you saw a butterfly, you were some kind of psychotic. Pete's shoulders shook with laughter and Mikey elbowed him in the gut, all of Pete's breath flying out of him via scrawny limb assault. The victim held his hands up in surrender, still trembling with now-silent wheezes. Mikey rolled his eyes, covering his face up to underneath his own eyes like a child playing peekaboo. Pete finally composed himself and backed up towards the sinks, tugging on Mikey's wrist until he dropped his hands and let himself be pulled along. 

"You did fuck up," he pointed out, "and it looks- alright, honestly, it looks fuckin' hilarious-"

"Thanks." Mikey interjected.

"-but the first time using liquid instead of stick is always hard. C'mere, I got you." Pete hopped backwards up onto the counter, fitting his skinny-jean-clad ass into the bowl of the sink as he tugged Mikey up close to him. The other bassist had squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing, presumably at the eyeliner coating the skin around his eyes. "Don't make that face, babe, it'll get stuck like that."

"You're a mom," Mikey muttered, more than a little abashed, "a fucking mom. Just fix me." Pete grinned, leaning down and nipping at the tip of Mikey's nose, making the other's eyes fly open.

"Be quiet, you're gorgeous." Pete licked his index finger and began rubbing at the stain on Mikey's left cheek. Mikey recoiled immediately. 

"Gross!"

"You want your face clean or not? Plain water doesn't work as well." Mikey frowned and then stepped up close again. "There we go." Trying not to laugh, Pete licked his finger again and got to work, aided by a rough paper towel. Mikey winced now and again- having been in the same position, Pete let up on these occasions, sympathetic. Soon, Mikey's face was once again mostly clean. This time, Pete dipped his much softer hoodie sleeve in some cold tap water and dabbed at his face, soothing the irritation caused. Mikey relaxed, peering around Pete to glance at himself in the mirror. Relief flooded his face, and he turned back to Pete to thank him. Before he could, however, Pete frowned and licked his finger a final time, clearing away a remaining black speck on Mikey's face. Just as before, Mikey scrunched his nose up, pulling a disgusted face.

"Gross." he repeated succintly, folding his arms. Pete leveled the most disbelieving expression he could possibly muster at him.

"You let me stick my tongue down your throat, and then you get all squirmy about a little face cleaning."

"That's because I actually  _like_  your tongue down my throat." Mikey retorted stubbornly, keeping an entirely straight face until he realized what he'd said. Pete's expression turned mischievous and he draped his arms around Mikey's neck, pulling him close again. His legs tangled around Mikey's waist, causing a bit of discomfort given that his butt was balanced on a sink, but fuck it.

"That right?"

"Damn it, Pete." Mikey murmured, and then they were kissing, hot and quick and firey. They never just kissed, something Pete refused to explain; it was always shameless, bruising making out, which suited Mikey fine too. Mikey's hands dipped into Pete's back pockets, squeezing his ass as much as was possible through his jeans. Pete's fingers combed through Mikey's locks before yanking on the ends of his wispy hair, hard, and Mikey moaned low. The latter broke off the kiss, just the barest bit pink, and then knelt, hands going to the zipper of Pete's jeans. Pete did not discourage him, hands tangling in Mikey's hair again as the younger guided down his fly. He gave another little tug just for good measure, savoring the muffled whine that came from Mikey. He assisted him in guiding his jeans down past his hips, letting Mikey yank them down below his thighs. The rush of cold air, however, was in no way expected.

Simultaneously, they came to the realization that the door had just been pushed open, and who should stand in the doorway but Frank Iero. Mikey was up in a flash, whirling around to face his bandmate. Mildly shocked, Frank held up his hands defensively, taking a small step back.

"I'll just...go across the hall." Seeing the look of moderate terror on Mikey's face must have put some urgency in Frank's mind, but Pete was sure that he was the only one who saw the amused smirk that tugged at Frank's lips. The guitarist raised his hand to his mouth and made a zipping motion, nodding meaningfully to Mikey before backing out of the men's room. Mikey exhaled slowly, that one sound full of anxiety. Pete, worried, touched Mikey's shoulder.

"You, uh...Wanna go back out there?" Mikey glanced from the door to Pete and back again, hesitating visibly before shaking his head. Pete, puzzled, started to question him before Mikey dropped to his knees again.

"We're not done."

* * *

 

The tour bus' soundtrack at one AM consisted of soft beeping from assorted chargers, the quiet rush of outside white noise and sounds of the night just beyond their door. Layered over all of this were other, rarer anomalies; secretive whispering and labored breathing, filling the compact space with the barest fraction of audible noise. There was a heavy intake of breath, slow and measured, and then Mikey's whisper broke the silence.

"Pete, what if someone wakes up?"

"Don't worry about it." came the soothing, nonchalant murmur. There was a pause of maybe three seconds, and then a soft groan came from Mikey, the younger man speaking up again.

"Pete- Can we- We're right by the door."

"The beds are closer to 'em, Mikes..." Mikey quieted, realizing he had a point. "You wanna stop?" Pete questioned in an undertone, steadying his hands on Mikey's hips, rubbing gentle circles into the fabric of low-slung jeans. Mikey paused and then shook his head, settling back fully onto Pete's lap. "Just tell me if you wanna." The bassist of Fall Out Boy returned to kissing at Mikey's neck, barely-there pecks to make him shiver. A lingering kiss was pressed to the sharp slant of Mikey's jaw, and then Pete bit down, drinking in the following shaky noises as Pete chewed at it. Mikey drew back abruptly, struggling to make eye contact in the velvety dark that surrounded them.

"Uh- Pete?" He pressed the tips of his fingers to the site of Pete's assault, lips curving in an odd kind of shy smile. Pete slid a hand down the back of Mikey's jeans, and the recipient wriggled tauntingly, but still tapped on the back of his other hand to get his attention. "I gotta tell you something." It was even more mumbled than his habitual pattern of speech, which was saying something. That in itself got Pete's attention, and he paused, a soft frown creasing his features. 

"Yeah? You can tell me anything, Mikey." Mikey bit his lip, tense. This also drew Pete's gaze, and he copied the movement, tugging at Mikey's bottom lip with his teeth and briefly drawing him into an open-mouthed kiss. Mikey was slower in drawing back this time around. 

Going a month and a half into what could have been considered a relationship with Pete Wentz without having sex with the man was somewhat remarkable, given Pete's propensity for absolutely everything. 

He had a feeling that throwing the words 'I love you' into the mix in a situation like this with Pete, who shied away from the word 'boyfriend' without the need of explanation, was a new breed of terrible idea. 

"Mm- Never mind. But thanks." A pause, and then he murmured, "Peteypie." under his breath. A smile pulled at Pete's lips. Mikey's wide-eyed poker face was one to be envied by the most successful of con men; even so, Pete wasn't entirely convinced. 

"You sure? I'm all yours, if you gotta say something."

"I'm sure." Mikey reassured him, physically guiding Pete's free hand back to his hip. "But I'll keep you in the loop."

"...Works for me." Silence, and then- "'Peteypie'?"

"Shut up and touch me, asshole."

* * *

The tamest their relationship got, and perhaps Mikey's favorite part of it all, was the occasions where they could simply sit undisturbed in comfortable silence, hyperaware to the synchronized patterns of each other's breathing. It was times like this where he felt a little more bold than was typical. Being the unofficial significant other- or maybe Pete merely considered him arm candy, he didn't know, he wasn't psychic- of Pete meant that he'd become aware early on of Pete's promiscuous habits. Anyone with common sense would have argued that this should have been a turn-off; a giant, flashing, LED warning sign for Mikey to turn and head for the hills as fast as physically possible. And maybe he didn't have common sense, for he not only realized that this was the sensible reaction, he had thought it over in detail- and yet, here he was, sitting beside the man he was fairly sure that he loved. 

The atmosphere was indisputably romantic, if your standard for romance was a heap of gravel overlooking a parking lot, stones digging into both of their thighs as they regarded the meagerly lit car park below them. This time around differed from previous rendezvous in that it was hardly sneaking off. A member of either of their bands had only to step out of their bus and look up to detect either of them. Such precautions were only taken in the first place because of the warnings Mikey had received about Pete, only to wave them away like an irritating insect. His sense of self-preservation was dulled down to an unhealthy stub. 

He slipped his hand into Pete's, tangling his fingers with the other bassist's. When Mikey's grip tightened a bit, Pete glanced over at him, lifting his head from Mikey's shoulder.

"What's up?" he inquired, picking up on Mikey's pensive demeanor. Mikey frowned imperceptibly, shaking his head. 

"Nothing. I'm just a little out of it." Pete, not gullible enough to take this for an answer, sat up completely.

"You know," he started, "I meant it when I said you could tell me anything. Wasn't just talking to hear myself talk." Mikey nodded.

"Yeah, I know." He wasn't sure if he was saying it out of genuine conviction, or if it was only to make Pete feel better. Regardless of which one it was, guilt weighed too heavily on him for him to let the sentiment go unaccompanied. There was a max of five seconds before he blurted out, "Kiss me." Pete slowly raised an eyebrow, puzzled, but pivoted towards him obligingly. 

"You don't have to tell me twice." With that, he leaned in and kissed Mikey, wrapping an arm around him and tapping his fingers on Mikey's palm. Mikey practically melted, leaning against him and reciprocating easily. However, it wasn't long until Pete's hands began to wander and his end of the kiss turned a bit more insistent, tongue nudging against Mikey's lips. Mikey pulled back, expression unreadable. Used to his companion being a sly, sneaky kind of shy, Pete did not immediately pick up on the fact that something was wrong, tugging Mikey closer again. Mikey put a hand to his chest and a finger to Pete's lips, shaking his head a tiny bit. Pete cocked his head to the side, lost. "Mikey...?"

"No, I- Just kiss me." Now even more lost, Pete leaned in to kiss him again, but Mikey again balked a bit. "Wait, uh- I'll show you. Just sit there." Pete smirked tentatively, still looking like he didn't quite understand what was going on. 

"Mikey, I know how to ki-"

"Shut the fuck up." Mikey told him quietly and then pressed their lips together, wrapping his arms around Pete's neck and running his fingers through the other man's messy hair. Not entirely sure what was expected of him, Pete was not immediately responsive. Mikey's somewhat aggressive tactic soon lessened, the kiss turning soft and gentle, his hold on Pete turning into more of an embrace than anything else. Hesitant, Pete finally kissed him back, keeping his response chaste this time. He felt Mikey smile against his lips, some of the tension falling from his shoulders; taking this as a good sign, Pete hugged him back, keeping him an arm's length away to continue kissing him. Mikey, normally somewhat flighty, pressed their foreheads and noses together upon breaking apart. In the glow of the cheap streetlights below, Pete could see his grin. 

"Good." Pete still wasn't certain as to what exactly had just happened, but he knew that whatever had shifted was making Mikey very happy, and that was something he wanted to keep going. Laughing softly, he picked up one of Mikey's hands, smoothing over the back of his hand comfortingly. Mikey watched in absent fascination, blinking in surprise as Pete lifted his hand to his lips, kissing the back of it like an old-fashioned gentleman. Glancing up at him, Pete kissed the tips of his fingers, a smile once again tugging at his lips. Mikey had gone still, dubiety in his eyes. 

"I- Um. Thanks." Pete had difficulty hearing him at first. The shadow that had grown over his face also planted some concern in Pete's mind.

"Mikes? What's wrong?"

"Nothing much, it's just..." Eyes flicking off to the side, Mikey rubbed the back of his neck, again worrying his lip. "What are you doing?" Pete answered not in the form of words, but in kissing him a third time. It was Mikey's turn to be statuesque, but Pete embraced him regardless. There was virtually no difference between the way Mikey had kissed him and this other way around, and it seemed to shock Mikey before he leaned into it enthusiastically, an infectious smile popping up. Confused but pleased, Pete broke away to examine his expression, smiling a little himself. Mikey made eye contact again, giving a little half-laugh of awkwardness. Pete piped up, eyes still on Mikey's face. 

"Better?"

"Yeah, lots. It's just that-" That they didn't actually  _kiss_ like a normal couple, that he- there was no tactful way to put any of this and his head was spinning- 

Pete shook his head, interrupting him without words. He drew Mikey in close to his side, wrapping an arm around his waist. Mikey slowly rested his head on Pete's shoulder, wrapping his arms around his knees. Pete kissed the top of his head, ruffling his hair.

"Don't worry. I get it." 

"...You sure?"

"Yeah."

"...But now I gotta come up with some kind of sappy nickname for  _you._ If I gotta ruin my rep with 'Peteypie', you're not getting off easy."

The grin in Mikey's voice was audible, even as he turned his head into Pete's neck, muffled. 

"Shut up." 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (late, I'm so sorry) birthday, TheHiddenPassenger! I've written something Pikey that's not (entirely) heartbreaking; call the world record books. Hope you liked it. ♥


End file.
